Crap Telly
by katydidit
Summary: Did John really think it was dangerous to get Sherlock into crap telly? Just a bit of Johnlock fluff.


Dr. John Watson knew what he was doing when he got Sherlock addicted to the crap television they started showing around four in the morning. Of course, if someone (especially a someone with long elegant limbs, carefully-mussed locks curling around his face, and a rather virulent case of insomnia) accused him of such treachery, he would widen his eyes innocently, then narrow them in confusion and ask what, exactly, that someone was implying. Still, he knew.

After the night of the cabbie, the men had staggered home from the Chinese restaurant full of dimsum and lychee wine. John only made it about as far as the chair which he'd already all but claimed as his, while Sherlock stepped unsteadily into the kitchen. The remote control was just within John's reach, if he stretched his fingers out just so, and he took this as a sign that he should turn the telly on.

For a while, few noises came from the kitchen. Then there was the occasional clink of glass on wood, of metal on glass. Then there was a much more frequent ominous bubbling-roaring sound. Finally his curiosity got the better of him and pulled him from his seat to lean him unsteadily against the doorway to the kitchen. Sherlock was leaning over the stovetop and stirring something in a pot while a number of beakers and jars sat bubbling and smoking on the table. This was impossible. Sherlock hadn't slept a single night since the two of them had met, and he'd had exactly as much wine as John had. Briefly, John wondered if his resistance was related to whatever past had led Detective Lestrade to the drugs bust earlier that very night. In any case, the man was in no condition to be doing science experiments in their kitchen at half three in the morning.

"Sherlock, what're you doing?" John coughed. The vapors from at least two of the jars on the table were caustic, and the air was burning John's lungs. He'd had an easier time breathing in the desert, even as black smoke filled the skies. Sherlock did not answer immediately. Clearly whatever was cooking in that pot was extremely delicate. When he did turn around, John saw that he was wearing protective goggles and began to wonder (for the first time, incidentally, but hardly the last) if the air in the room was actually dangerous.

"It's an experiment. I'm measuring the effects of various acids and chemicals on the rate at which human bones decalcify." John was relieved to hear a hint of a slur to the other man's words. Then he was not so relieved. Chemicals. Bones. A drunken, sleep-deprived scientist.

"Can't you leave it until morning?" he asked. "You haven't slept in days and I don't want to worry about breathing in any poison gas while I'm sleeping tonight." Sherlock blinked at him from behind the goggles. They made his eyes look round and owlish—very different from their usual strikingly dignified appearance. John grinned privately and wondered if Sherlock knew how he looked in them. As Sherlock's thoughtful silence stretched on, John began to steel himself for another clash of wills. Of course this experiment would be of the utmost importance to national security—to Earth's security, or possibly even that of the whole universe. He hadn't been working out much recently, but John figured that he might be able to take Sherlock down, provided he caught him unaware.

"Sure." Speaking of unaware, John was quite certain that his jaw was actually on the floor. He recovered quickly enough, though, and found himself ushering Sherlock through the doorway into the sitting room. There was a short moment of panic when the taller man slipped out of his grasp and hurried back to the kitchen ("The chemicals, John! Just hold on a second and let me stabilize them so it's not a total waste...") but soon the men were sitting together in a mildly uncomfortable silence while the television droned on in the background. At first Sherlock seemed fidgety and restless, but the screen commanded more and more of his attention and soon he was shouting at the host and audience of the paternity-test show regarding the maybe-father's cheekbones or pinky finger or left nostril or something.

It became a habit they shared. Sherlock would not, of course, deign glance towards the telly while he was working on a case ("Please. It makes even my mind function more slowly. Just read the paper, John.") but the night that they solved one, they stayed awake into the grey hours of early dawn watching crap telly. Well, Sherlock would watch crap telly.

John would watch Sherlock.

Even distracted, held in the throes of the hypnotising lights and sounds, Sherlock's face remained quietly intelligent. He studied the people on the screen with the same intensity that he used on suspects and even innocent passersby. If there was a story behind the one the guests shared with the audience, Sherlock wanted to know it, and he almost always got his way. While hardly ambient, romantic lighting, the flickering lights played across the angles and contours in his face, and on those occasions when he looked over at John (usually commercials, though many of those also held his attention), it slid sideways into his eyes and made them seem to glow from within. It was absolutely bloody fascinating.

Late one night, Sherlock explained that he was often too worked up after solving a case to even consider sleeping for the first several hours. No matter how long he'd been awake (sleeping would only interrupt his thinking patterns, so of course it was not even an option until the puzzle was solved), he simply would have too much energy and adrenalin flowing through his system. John couldn't tell that from watching him watch the telly, though. He looked peaceful and, no, not relaxed really, but certainly calmer than usual.

Things did change as the months went on. Though Sherlock still refused to allow the television to be switched on while he was working on a case, he soon became the one who reached for the remote when they got home after solving it. A little while later, completely unrelated to the telly, the men began sitting together on the sofa, instead of their own separate chairs. A bit after that, Sherlock began stretching out on the sofa with his head in John's lap and his legs dangling off the opposite arm. It took only minutes after _that_ move for John to thread his fingers through Sherlock's hair and deem it surprisingly soft. It took only _seconds_ after that move for Sherlock to announce that scalp massages were very good for the brain, and for John to pick up on his semi-spoken request. (It wasn't until the next day that John convinced Sherlock that, if they were so good for the brain, maybe Sherlock should make it a habit to perform them on John, so he could become a better thinker and more of a match for the other man.)

John began to notice Sherlock falling asleep sooner and sooner each time they watched the crap telly together. He figured that it was probably because the problems and mysteries of the people on the screen were so small compared to those the two of them faced on a daily basis, and thus allowed Sherlock to relax, decompress. Whatever the reason, Sherlock reported that he was able to sleep faster, deeper, and for longer than he had before their ritual started, and John took that as a sign of success.

One night, after Sherlock's breathing had slowed and evened and John's fingers had stilled but not been removed from his hair, a troubling dream seemed to take him into its grasp. He grunted in his sleep and began thrashing about, long limbs flailing against imagined assailants. John slipped his hand through the collar of Sherlock's shirt (the top several buttons having been, much earlier, unfastened in the name of comfort) and stroked his chest. He wanted to offer reassurances but didn't want to wake the other man. Sherlock turned once, despite the calming touch, and buried his face and fists in John's jumper. That was enough. John shook his sleeping partner gently and found himself smiling when their eyes met in the dark. "Just a dream," he assured him. His hand resumed stroking, caressing, lightly tugging on Sherlock's hair. "Alright?"

Sherlock nodded and pressed his face back into John's jumper. He said something then, but John experienced the words as only a warm breath struggling through the fibres of his jumper to glide against his skin. When he asked Sherlock if he could please repeat that, but perhaps while facing in the general direction of his ears, rather than his navel, Sherlock didn't move for a moment or two.

"I said..." his voice was rough but made almost sweet by sleepiness. His eyes fixed on a point on the jumper about midway up John's torso—not his eyes. "I am beginning to suspect that you might be my area." If it weren't so dark in the room, John might have been able to see that the tips of Sherlock's ears were turning red, but as it was, the unsteady light of the television concealed it. It took John a moment or two first to figure out what Sherlock was saying and then to begin to comprehend it, but when he did, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the other's lips. Sherlock clutched at his collar to keep him from pulling back too quickly.

The kissing soon worked its way into the rituals as well, interrupted only when Sherlock felt the need to pull away and shout abuse at the television.


End file.
